


Can't Take the Sky

by beetle



Category: Star Trek
Genre: M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:27:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the slashthedrabble prompt "flight", title lifted from . . . nowhere in particular, but with a slightly different emphasis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Take the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Takes place after the movie, but no spoilers.

“So . . . vhat's your prognosis, Dr. McCoy?”  
  
At that playful tone, McCoy glares, but finishes healing Ensign Chekov's lacerated shoulder. “My prognosis is you're a goddamn fool, Ensign, now shut up and let me do my goddamn job.”  
  
Tense silence reigns for a few minutes, then Chekov sighs. “Leonard, please,” he begins, pitched too low for Sulu or Nurse Banisadr to hear, though they're only feet away--Sulu making bratty noises about hypos.  
  
“You're cleared, Mr. Chekov. Go easy on that shoulder for a few hours, and I'll comm you some simple exercises you can do to prevent stiffness--”  
  
McCoy stops speaking as the ensign's hand--the good one . . . at least he follows orders  _some_  of the time--grips his own. The space between their faces closes and McCoy's looking into eyes like Earth's sky, and trying not to drown in such perfect, peaceful openness.   
  
Honestly, he can't remember  _why_  he tries. Can't help but think this drowning is how birds must feel, and why they fly so high.  
  
He sighs as soft skin and even softer curls brush his forehead, and closes his eyes for a moment. It's been a longer day than most, and all he wants is  _rest_. He ain't kidding himself into thinking he'll be getting it any time soon.  
  
“It was fucking stupid, what you did down there, Ensign.”  
  
“The Keptin disagrees, sir. So do I.”  
  
“And the two of you combined don't have the common sense God gave a goose!” McCoy sighs again, and Chekov's hands cup his face gently, the injured one noticeably warmer and noticeably shaking. Despite that, the kiss he presses to McCoy's lips is steady, firm. Intent with meaning that doesn't bear too much looking into until later, when McCoy's alone with his thoughts.  
  
When said thoughts are considerably less jangled.  
  
“All that matters is the entire team came back from avay mission.”  
  
“No, that's  _not_  all that matters, you young blockhead, though I don't s'pose you'll understand that, any time soon.” McCoy lets himself be kissed again, inappropriate, or not. Returns it hard and almost angrily for a little while, before Chekov pulls away.  
  
He seems drained, but entirely too pleased with himself.  
  
“If you vould . . . instead of comm'ing those exercises, you could . . . stop by my qvarters after your shift and, em, give me a practical demonstration,” the Ensign says in that same sotto-voice, his accent patently ridiculous. “I . . . vould appreciate it  _wery_ , wery much.”   
  
“Well, my shriveled, ol' heart just went pitty-pat.” McCoy clears his throat and steps back. Sulu and Banisadr are  _still_  butting heads about the damned hypo, and McCoy just knows he's going to have to step in to resolve it. Better now, than later. “After my shift, then. Now stop malingerin' and get the hell out of my Sickbay, Ensign.”  
  
Chekov's halfway to the doors when McCoy can't hold it back anymore.  
  
“Pavel. . . .”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“. . . thank you for saving my life.”


End file.
